THE LEARNED BLACKSMITH
As the old man called Winters left the post-office he struck out for the
mountain road, a smooth macadamized thoroughfare kept in perfect order
for the benefit of the wealthy summer residents of the Heights, whither
it led: but he soon left it for a leafy ravine that ran alongside and
was rich with the sights and sounds of June.
Whether he did this from habit, being an ardent lover of nature, or
because he knew that all anger must be soothed by the songs of birds and
the perfume of flowers, can only be guessed. Certain it is that if he
sought to obtain the latter result for his disturbed companion, who had
as silently followed him into the shady by-way as he had from the
crowded office, he fully succeeded.
The ravine, like the road, climbed steadily upward, and the noisy little
stream that tumbled through it made a soothing accompaniment to the
bird songs: and in his own delight of listening the old man almost
forgot his fellow traveler. Almost, but not quite; for just at a point
where the gully branched eastward and he paused to admire, a sigh fell
on Seth Winters's ear, and set him face backward, smiling cheerily and
remarking:
"This is one of my resting-spots. Let's stop a minute. The moss--or
lichen--on this bowlder must be an inch thick. Dry as a feather cushion,
too, because the sun strikes this particular place as soon as it rises
above old Beacon, across the river. Sit, please."
He seated himself as he spoke, and Jim dropped down beside him.
"Beautiful, isn't it, lad? And made for just us two to appreciate, it
may be: for I doubt if any others ever visit this hidden nook. Think of
the immeasurable wealth of a Providence who could create such a wonder
for just two insignificant human beings. Ah! but it takes my breath
away!" and as if in the presence of Deity itself, the blacksmith
reverently bared his head.
Unconsciously, Jim doffed his own new straw hat; though his companion
smiled, realizing that the action was due to example merely, or even to
a heated forehead. But he commended, saying:
"That's right. A man can think better with his head uncovered. If it
wouldn't rouse too much idle talk I'd never wear a hat, the year round."
To this the troubled lad made no reply. Indeed, he scarcely noticed what
was said, he was so anxious over the affair of the morning; and, with
another prodigious sigh, he suddenly burst forth;
"What in the world 'll I do!"
"Do right, of course. That's easy."
"Huh! But when a feller don't know which is right--Pshaw!"
"You might as well tell me the whole story. I'm bound to hear it in the
end, you know, because I'm the justice of the peace whom that angry
gentleman was in pursuit of. If his common sense doesn't get the better
of his anger, you'll likely be served a summons to appear before me and
answer for your 'assault.' But--he hasn't applied to me yet; and until
he does I've a right to hear all you have to say. Better begin at the
beginning of things."
Jim looked up perplexed. He had only very vague ideas of justice as
administered by law and, at present, he cared little about that. If he
could make this fine old fellow see right into his heart, for a minute,
he was sure he would be given good advice. He even opened his lips to
speak, but closed them again with a sense of the uselessness of the
attempt. So that it was with the surprise of one who first listens to a
"mind reader" that he heard Seth Winters say:
"I know all about you. If you can't talk for yourself, my lad, I'll talk
for you. You are an orphan. As far as you know there isn't a human being
living who has any claim to your services by reason of blood
relationship. You worked like a bond slave for an exacting old woman
truck-farmer until pity got the better of your abnormal sense of 'duty,'
when you ran away and helped a kidnapped girl to reach her friends. In
recognition of your brave action my neighbor, Mrs. Betty Calvert, has
taken you in hand to give you a chance to make a man of yourself. She is
going to test your character further and, if you prove worthy, will give
you the education you covet more than anything else in life. She
brought you here last night and this morning trusted you with two
important matters: the delivery to a certain gentleman, whom as yet I do
not know, of a confidential letter: and the care of her Great Danes,
creatures which she looks upon as almost wiser than human beings and
considers her stanchest friends. The latter safely reached Mr. Chester's
hands; but--the Danes? What shall we do about the Danes, Jim Barlow?"
"Thun--der--a--tion! You must be one them air wizards I heerd Mis' Stott
tell about, 't used to be in that Germany country where she was raised.
Why--pshaw! I feel as if you'd turned me clean inside out! How--how come
it?"
"In the most natural way. The men who print newspapers search closely
for a bit of 'news,' and so your simple story got into the columns of my
weekly. Besides, Mrs. Betty Calvert and I are lifelong friends. Our
fathers' estates in old Maryland lay side by side. She's a gossip, Betty
is, and who so delightful to gossip with as an old man who's known your
whole life from A to izzard? So when she can't seat herself in my
little smithy and hinder my work by chattering there, she must needs
put all her thoughts and actions on a bit of writing paper and send it
through the post. Now, my lad, I've talked to you more than common. Do
you know why?"
"No, I don't, and it sounds like some them yarns Dorothy C. used to make
up whilst we was pickin' berries in the sun, just to make it come easier
like. She can tell more stories, right out her plain head 'n a feller 'd
believe! She's awful clever, Dorothy is--and spell! My sakes! If I could
spell like her I'd be sot up. But I don't see how just bein' befriended
by Mis' Calvert made you talk to me so much."
The blacksmith laughed, and answered:
"Indeed, lad, it wasn't that. That big-hearted woman has so many
protégés that one more or less scarcely interests me. Only for something
in themselves. Well, it was something in yourself. Down there in the
office, while I stood behind a partition and nobody saw me--I would hide
anywhere to keep out of a quarrel!--I saw you, the very instant after
Mr. Montaigne had shaken you and you'd struck back, lift your foot and
step aside because a poor little caterpillar was crawling across the
floor and you were in danger of crushing it. It was a very little thing
in itself, but a big thing to have been done by a boy in the terrific
passion you were. It was one of God's creatures, and you spared it. I
believe you're worth knowing. But I'd like to have that belief confirmed
by hearing what you are going to do next. Let us go on."
They both rose and each carrying his hat in his hand, the better to
facilitate "thinking," went silently onward again. It was a long climb,
something more than two miles, but the ravine ended at length in a
meadow on the sloping hillside, which Seth Winters crossed by a tiny
footpath. Then they were upon the smooth white road again. Before them
rose the fine mansions of those residents designated by Alfaretta as the
"aristocratics," and scattered here and there among these larger estates
were the humbler homes of the farmer folk who had dwelt "up-mounting"
long before it had become the fashionable "Heights."
Not far ahead lay Deerhurst, the very first of the expensive dwellings
to be erected amid such a wilderness of rocks and trees: its massive
stone walls half-hidden by the ivy clambering over them, its judiciously
trimmed "vistas" through which one might look northward to the Catskills
and downward to the valley bordering the great Hudson.
Just within the clematis-draped entrance-pillars stood the picturesque
lodge where the childless couple lived who had charge of the estate and
with whom Jim was to stay. He had been assigned a pleasant upper
chamber, comfortably fitted up with what seemed to its humble occupant
almost palatial splendor. Best of all, there hung upon the wall of this
chamber a little book-rack filled with well-selected literature. And,
though the boy did not know this, the books had been chosen to meet just
his especial case by Seth Winters himself, at the behest of his old
friend, Mrs. Calvert, immediately upon her decision to bring Jim to
Deerhurst.
Even now, one volume lay on the window ledge, where the happy lad had
risen to study it as soon as daylight came. He fancied that he could
see it, even at this distance, and another of his prodigious sighs
issued from his lips.
"Well, lad. We have come to the parting of the ways, at least for the
present. My smithy lies yonder, beyond that turn of the road and behind
the biggest oak tree in the country. Behind the shop is another mighty
fellow, known all over this countryside as the 'Great Balm of Gilead.'
It's as old, maybe, as 'the everlasting hills,' and seems to hold the
strength of one. I've built an iron fence around it, to protect its bark
from the knives of silly people who would carve their names upon it,
and--it's well worth seeing. Good-by."
"Hold on! Say. You seem so friendly like, mebbe--mebbe you could give me
a job."
"No, I couldn't," came the answer with unexpected sharpness, yet a tinge
of regret.
"Why not? I'm strong--strong as blazes, for all I'm kind of lean 'count
of growin' so fast. And I'm steady. If you could see Mirandy Stott,
she'd have to 'low that, no matter how mad she was about my leavin'.
Give me a job, won't ye?"
"No. I thought you were going to do right. Good-morning;" and, as if he
wholly gave up his apparent interest in the lad, Seth Winters, known
widely and well as the "Learned Blacksmith," strode rapidly homeward to
his daily toil, feeling that he had indeed wasted his morning; and he
was a man to whom every hour was precious.
Jim's perplexity was such that he would far rather run away and turn his
back on all these new helpful friends than return to Deerhurst and
confess his unfaithfulness to his duty. He fancied he could hear Mrs.
Cecil saying:
"Well, I tried you and found you wanting. I shall never trust you again.
You can go where you please, for you've had your chance and wasted it."
Of course, even in fancy, he couldn't frame sentences just like these,
but the spirit of them was plain enough to his mind. The dogs--One
thought of these, at that moment, altered everything. It had been
commented upon by all the retainers of the house of Calvert that such
discriminating animals had made instant friends with the uncouth farm
boy. This had flattered his pride and his fondness for all dumb
creatures had made them dear to him beyond his own belief. Poor Ponce!
Poor Peter! If they suffered because of his negligence--Well, he must
make what atonement he could!
His doubts sank to rest though his reluctance to follow the dictates of
his conscience did not; and it was by actual force he dragged his
unwilling feet through the great stone gateway and along the driveway to
that shady veranda where he saw the mistress of Deerhurst sitting, ready
waiting for her morning drive and the arrival of Ephraim. As Jim
approached she looked at him curiously. Why should he come by that road
when he was due from another? and why was he not long ago transplanting
those celery seedlings which she had directed him should be his first
day's labor?
As he reached the wide steps he snatched off his hat again; not, as she
fancied, from an instinctive respect to her but to cool his hot face,
and without prelude jerked out the whole of his story:
"Mis' Calvert, ma'am, I've lost your dogs. I've been in a fight. I'm
going to be arrested an' took afore a judge-blacksmith. Likely I'll be
jailed. 'Tain't no sort o' use sayin' I'm sorry--that don't even touch
to what I feel inside me. You give me a chance an'--an'--I wasn't worth
it. I'll go, now, and--and soon's I can get a job an' earn somethin'
I'll send you back your clothes. Good-by."
"Stop! Wait! _You lost my dogs!_" cried Mrs. Cecil, springing up and in
a tone which brooked no disobedience: a tone such as a high-born dame
might sometimes use to an inferior but was rarely heard from this real
gentlewoman; a tone that, despite the humility and self-contempt he felt
at that moment, stung the unhappy youth like a whip-lash. "Explain. At
once. If they're lost they must be found. That you've been foolish
enough to fight and get arrested--that's your own affair--nothing to me;
but my dogs, my priceless, splendid, irreplaceable Great Danes! Boy, you
might as well have struck me on my very heart. Where? When? Oh! if I had
never, never seen you!"
Poor Jim said nothing. He stood waiting with bowed head while she
lavished her indignation upon him, and realizing, for the first, how
great a part of a lonely old life even dumb animals may become. When,
for want of breath, or further power to contemn, she sank back in her
stoop chair, he turned to go, a dejected, disappointed creature that
would have moved Mrs. Cecil's heart to pity, had she opened her eyes to
look. But she had closed them in a sort of hopeless despair, and he had
already retraced his footsteps some distance toward the outer road when
there sounded upon the air that which sent her to her feet again--this
time in wild delight--and arrested him where he stood.
At once, following those joyful barks, that both hearers would have
recognized anywhere, came the leaping, springing dogs; dangling their
broken chains and the freshly gnawed and broken ropes--with which old
Ephraim had unwisely reckoned to restrain them from the sweets of a once
tasted liberty.
But even amid her sudden rejoicing where had been profound sorrow, the
doting mistress of the troublesome Great Danes felt a sharp tinge of
jealousy.
"They're safe, the precious creatures! But--they went to that farm boy
first!"